Like I Can Love

by Kim Lock

  But this, you know by now.

  Something caught my eye. A teacup with a sweet picture painted on the side: an angel resting on a red rose. The painting was intricately detailed, with fine strokes in metallic gold edging the angel’s wings. I remember thinking I could take it to work; I could gaze at it through the day – the cherub seated atop the bloom as though the world was nothing but a bed of roses.

  The saleswoman must have been close to sixty years old. I didn’t even know her name – I certainly didn’t know her ex-husband – yet I still saw a vision: a flash of young, firm flesh, gazelle-like limbs wrapped around a man who would break his wife’s heart.

  ‘You like the cup?’ she asked. ‘We have matching plates – three different sizes.’ She beamed. ‘I could do a special price for you, Evelyn. Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  I didn’t know how to answer that question. It felt loaded with far more meaning than she had intended. What was I looking for? And more importantly, how would I know when I found it?

  Stephen had reacted to the news of the pregnancy with delight. He had beamed and gushed at the prospect of becoming a father. He had even broached the topic of marriage yet again, and laughed knowingly at my usual hesitation. Any excuse for him to propose! De facto was a difficult concept for people to grasp back then – ­especially here, in this town – but I’ve never felt the need for that piece of paper, that certificate that essentially changes nothing.

  Once again, I feel a pang of sadness that these frequent proposals and my frequent good-humoured rejections – these are the loving, delicate, idiosyncratic interactions between your father and I of which you were deprived. I will always be so sorry that you missed the real us.

  And it was precisely because of your father’s excitement over the pregnancy that I felt so anxious.

  Because I had begun to feel fear, Jenna – what would we do if it all fell apart?

  Indicating the cup with the angel and its matching saucer, I told the saleswoman, ‘This tea-set. I’ll take the lot, as well as any other matching crockery.’

  Fifteen minutes later, I felt the saleswoman’s eyes trained on my back all the way out the door. I knew I had just given the older lady three weeks worth of gossip: the Channel 8 news presenter Evelyn Francis came into the shop today; she bought two hundred dollars worth of teacups! Her friends would all titter and speculate, undoubtedly, over whether or not I even made my own tea, or had a maid do it for me. The small-town grapevine could work one of two ways: in my favour, it could enhance my reputation, but more often than not, it was the alternative – all that talk, all that word-of-mouth – nothing more than a gossip-fuelled thorn in my side.

  But even now, I say these things and I wonder if you would believe me.

  I slipped into a nearby coffee shop to escape the cold, seating myself by the window. I slid the box of crockery under the table and placed the cup from the shelf – the one with the angel painted on the side – onto the table. I asked the waitress to fill it with a cappuccino, then I watched her return behind the counter, lean over and whisper something in another waitress’s ear. Both women then turned to me, glanced down at the teacup in the first waitress’s hand, and smirked.

  Then, I heard his voice.

  What can I say here, Jenna, to help you understand what that voice did to me inside? How can I convey the feeling of being simultaneously twisted into a knot and yet pulled apart, splintered into a thousand pieces? A feeling of wanting to leap for joy, yet run and hide?

  Have you ever felt that way? Perhaps not. I realise that I have no place to give you maternal advice but let me tell you this, my darling: I wish you nothing but love. Love that is free and honest and out in the open. Because to have to hide it, to have to fight it? Love hurts so much that way.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working?’ I asked.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m on assignment,’ I said. ‘The outrage of local cafés selling coffee at a five hundred per cent mark-up.’

  When he sat down, I felt the eyes of the waitress burning into my back before she appeared beside the table and placed down the angel cup filled with foam-topped coffee. Alongside the saucer she slid a slice of cinnamon tea-cake, explaining that it was ‘on the house’ with a jerk of her head at the kitchen, where a gentleman offered me a wave.

  Then I noticed a group of three adolescent boys at a table nearby glowering at my companion’s back. One of them mouthed the words ‘f---ing pig’.

  I thought I might be sick. Imploring him that he shouldn’t be here, I shoved the slice of cake across and told him to take it.

  He chuckled, that broad grin showing perfect white teeth. I could see those other feelings in his face that day – invisible to others, hidden behind those captivating black irises: a sadness, a frustration.

  I insisted that he go. I said, ‘People are looking.’

  He nodded and stood, placing a hand on my shoulder, and it was everything I could do not to lay down my cheek on his hand as his fingers brushed the nape of my neck.

  Picking up the tea-cake, he took a bite of it straight from his hand as he moved away through the tables. I watched the teenage boys snigger behind their hands as he passed their table.

  And then I was alone once more with the angel on my teacup, a box full of useless charity at my feet.

  I look back over this letter and hope you can see that I’m trying to paint you a picture, my darling. I’m trying to show you why.

  Until next time.

  Love, Mum

  4

  THEN

  Between the rows of vines, Ark knelt on the ground and dug his fingers into the earth. The summer had been so long and dry that already the leaves of the grapes were lacklustre, not yet autumn-red but having lost their plump summer green. A cool breeze rattled through the leaves and lifted Jenna’s hair from her neck.

  ‘Here.’ Ark scooped up a handful of red soil. Thin streams the colour of dried blood ran through his fingers. He brought his cupped hands to her face. ‘Smell this.’

  Jenna shot him a look of surprise then reluctantly lowered her nose. Quickly, she sniffed at the soil: one cursory, half-hearted intake of breath.

  ‘You call that a smell?’ he teased. ‘Try again. Take a big lungful. There, can you taste that? In the scent?’

  Jenna straightened up. ‘It smells like dirt,’ she said warily, rubbing her nose. ‘What am I supposed to be tasting?’

  Stepping closer, Ark licked his finger, then pressed his fingertip into the mound of soil on his palm. ‘Open up,’ he instructed.

  ‘Are you serious?’ She laughed, pushing his hand away. ‘I’m not going to eat it.’

  ‘Come on.’ He grinned at her, holding up the red tip of his finger. Touching it gently to his own mouth, he traced a rusty smear across his lower lip. ‘You know you want to,’ he said softly, letting the soil stream from his other hand and scatter across the grass with a soft ticking noise. He lifted her hand to his lips and ran the end of her index finger across the trail of dirt.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Terra rossa – it’s Italian for “red soil”. Now try it.’

  Jenna’s breath came shallow as he gently steered her fingertip to her mouth. Relaxing her jaw, her lips parted and then she tasted the dirt on her tongue: earthy and metallic.

  ‘It’s . . .’ She licked her lips, giving a self-conscious laugh. ‘It tastes kinda rusty.’

  ‘Nice.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘It is rusty.’

  Jenna wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘The dirt is rusty?’

  ‘In a way, yes. This strip of red clay here,’ he swept his arm out along the length of the vines, following the highway, ‘is on a shallow limestone ridge, only about fifteen by two kilometres. The drainage is superb for Cab Sav grapes. After the limestone has weathered, what’s left over is clay. The clay is
susceptible to oxidisation – rust. It forms in the soil, giving it that rich, red colour.’

  ‘I see.’ Jenna nodded, pressing her lips together; she could still taste the gritty earth between her teeth. ‘And is that what we’re having for lunch?’ She gestured to the cooler bag at his feet.

  ‘Nah,’ Ark said, leaning in close to gently kiss the last traces of soil from her lips. ‘Thought I’d feed you something a little more palatable. Come on. It’s not much further.’

  Clutching her free hand, he swung her arm gently as they walked. Dry stubbled grass crunched under their feet as grape tendrils plucked at her shoulders.

  ‘Such a beautiful property.’ Jenna turned to gaze over the gentle rise they’d been slowly climbing. Vines unrolled in sweeping rows, their leaves scuffling in a breeze that carried the scent of far-off rain on parched earth.

  Ark squinted, his face cast golden by the setting sun. ‘Sometimes I forget to notice it, you know? Have to remind myself.’

  Jenna picked her way carefully around knotty tufts of grass. She ignored the voice in her head that asked her how blind she had been. Instead she concentrated on the lilting bass of Ark’s voice, the feel of the vines stretching to stroke her elbows, the clouds painted amber on the horizon. One foot after the other she pressed up the hill, striding away from it all. Reminding herself to think only of him. Here. Now. All this. Here, she could be hidden away from all of it.

  ‘I’m too busy to stop,’ Ark was saying. ‘I don’t want to pause, I want to rake in what I’ve worked for, what I deserve, you know?’ He squeezed her hand and a thrill shot up her forearm. ‘When I was a kid my dad called all the shots. He ruled with an iron fist, I guess you could say. God help me if I didn’t eat everything on my plate, if I wanted to go to a friend’s house, or if I got a B on my report card. I like having the freedom now, all this is mine.’

  Jenna watched his pensive expression.

  ‘I knew Grandma would want me to do something productive with my inheritance,’ he said. ‘As soon as I saw this place for sale, I knew. And besides,’ he smiled crookedly, ‘it was the perfect excuse to get away from memories of my dad.’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘No, no, I did,’ he hurried to answer. ‘But I wanted to start my own life. My own empire. My mum laments me being so far away. But . . .’ He went quiet. ‘There reached a time when I couldn’t keep . . .’ He sighed.

  ‘Keep . . .?’

  ‘Picking up after her.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great woman,’ he said hastily. ‘She’s smart and she works really hard at keeping the house perfect. She always made sure we had good food for school, stuff like that. She’d do anything for us. But if I’d let her, she would have kept me there forever. She could be a bit smothering. My dad was tough on her sometimes, he expected everyone to do their part around the place and could be . . .’ he struggled to find the word, ‘tactless at letting everyone know. Especially her.’

  ‘Your parents fought?’ Jenna asked. Memories of her own father were affectionate, pleasant, even though her parents had separated before she could remember.

  ‘Hell no.’ Ark laughed abruptly. ‘Mum knew better than to answer back.’

  Jenna started. ‘He didn’t hit her, did he?’

  Ark shot her a quick sideways look. ‘Nothing serious, he wasn’t a wife beater. He was a good man. And never in front of us – she only told me about it later. Think he just pushed her a few times. But you know, I had a good childhood.’

  She waited for him to go on, but he seemed to have dis­appeared inwards. His jaw went firm, he dropped his gaze to the ground.

  Responses tumbled through Jenna’s head, but nothing seemed right. So she just squeezed his hand.

  He looked at her strangely. ‘Don’t move.’ Setting the cooler bag on the ground, he dug into his pocket and withdrew his phone. ‘I want to take a photo of you in this light. You’re glowing – the sunlight on your hair.’

  As the shutter clicked, Jenna laughed, embarrassed. She shoved him playfully, stooped to pick up the bag of food and strode ahead of him.

  ‘The end of this row?’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘Yep, up there. There’s a great spot we can sit. Oh, wow,’ he gave a low whistle, ‘this angle is great, too.’

  Heat flushed her cheeks and she broke into a jog as the edge of the row came into view ahead. A couple of wrens started into the air, chirping indignantly. Nearing the top of the rise, Jenna slowed. The breeze swirled low through the leaves. As she crested the hill a fresh gust swept sidelong and she grimaced as she caught an unmistakable foetid, rotten-sweet scent.

  ‘Ugh.’ She glanced around. ‘We might have to pick another spot.’

  Ark, still a little way down the hill, hastened to catch up. ‘What’s that?’ he called, grinning. ‘Didn’t hear you.’

  ‘We might have to find somewhere else,’ she repeated, louder, waving her hand beneath her nose at a fresh putrid wave. ‘A dead kangaroo or something –’

  Midstride, Ark froze. His face drained of colour.

  Jenna’s smile faded. She took a step towards him. ‘Ark?’

  Dropping the cooler bag to the dirt, he stumbled backwards several steps, his eyes wide and darting around.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t.’ He was struggling for breath; his face had turned white. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ With a frown, she went towards him, whipping her head around to follow the direction of his gaze. ‘What is it?’ Her own heart picked up. Had he seen a snake?

  ‘Shit,’ he croaked, grabbing at his neckband, still walking backwards.

  ‘Ark? Are you okay?’

  Turning away from her, he tripped over a rock, dropping to one knee before clambering to his feet.

  ‘Hey!’ She dashed to catch up, warily putting her hand on his arm. His skin was clammy.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he breathed. His eyes were closed and he took frantic gulps of air through his mouth. ‘I have to go back.’

  *

  Inside, Ark’s house was dim and cool beneath evening’s shroud. Despite his insistence otherwise, Jenna steered Ark to the lounge room, watching as he humoured her ministrations and lowered himself to the plump leather couch with an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ she said, then added as he opened his mouth, ‘look, just sit there.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I won’t argue with the nurse.’

  Her footsteps were muffled on the long hall runner. The last of the afternoon light pressed dimly through the window, across the old-style ceramic sink and granite benchtops. Searching the overhead cabinets, she found a glass and filled it with water from the tap. She took in the view through the window. A sweeping lawn of lushly watered kikuyu split by a path of russet pavers, leading down a gentle slope towards a row of soaring red gums. The gums’ vast creamy-brown striped trunks acted like oversized fence posts, separating the garden from the front forty acres of shiraz and cabernet grapes that rolled between the highway and the house. Evening shadows dropped across the lawn, long and blur-edged like strokes of watercolour. Looking around the kitchen, Jenna shivered, trying to imagine calling this home. She pictured her own photographs on the wall, filling the gaps where recently removed frames glared like extracted teeth. Sitting in the tall-backed chairs at the dining table, eating breakfast or sipping coffee. Inside these huge rooms, between these solid stone walls, she could be free.

  Free of what? Guilt? The torment of the inexplicable crawling-skin feeling?

  Jenna swallowed, placing the filled glass momentarily on the counter to wipe clammy palms against her jeans. She turned away from the window and hurried back down the hall.

  On the couch, Ark had his head in his hands, elbows
on his knees. Biceps swelled against short sleeves, a streak of red dirt up the inside seam of his jeans against his boots. Discarded in the doorway, the cooler bag wilted with its unrealised bounty of leg ham, crusty white bread, potato salad, and a dry McLaren Vale semillon.

  Hearing her approach he straightened, swiped a thumb beneath his nose and sniffed surreptitiously.

  ‘Okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ His fingertips brushed hers as she handed him the water. Beneath the bold line of his jaw, his pulse flickered in his throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Jeez,’ he gave a soft laugh, ‘talk about embarrassing.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ she said. ‘Panic attack?’

  He pulled her down alongside him and nodded once, quickly. ‘Yep. Would have been worse if I’d let it.’

  ‘What set it off? It wasn’t something I did, I hope.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, God no. It’s just a phobia,’ he confessed, playing with her fingers. ‘Nothing too serious.’

  Jenna nodded and waited for him to go on.

  ‘It’s not a big deal. I keep it under control, mostly.’ He ran his thumbnail delicately over the back of her hand and she shivered. ‘I have necrophobia,’ he said.

  ‘A fear of death?’

  ‘Sort of. Dead things. Reminders of death – cemeteries, funerals, and in this case, dead animals. I’ve had it since I was a teenager.’

  Jenna wanted to ask him about it. She had the sudden urge to delve into this crack in his exterior and find a tender pulse to press. The release of sweet pain. But the clench of his jaw stopped her.

  ‘You’re perfect, you know that?’ His voice was low, tentative, as though tasting the words.